“It’s beautiful,” Beatrix whispered as she reached forward to grasp it from Jennings’ palm, the tips of her fingers brushing against the thick wool of his gloves.
“Don’t ask what I had to do to get it,” Jennings replied as he watched her trace the delicate outline of the petals, clearly hoping that the sight of the flower would make her smile, just as it had in the frosty confines of the train car.
And then, before Beatrix could think what to do next, he touched the brim of his hat in a silent goodbye and disappeared, his tattered coattails lost in the heavy snowfall.
As Beatrix lifted the petals to her nose and breathed in the sweet floral scent that should have carried her mind far away from thoughts of winter, she felt a tear slide down her face, the delicate stream freezing against her cheek before it had a chance to fall.
Because the chapter unfolding before her was starting to feel very much like the end.
CHAPTER 19
A Pendulum
Appears when something is trying to break free.
As Anne climbed the front stoop of the Crowley mansion, the speech that she’d been piecing together ever since she’d seen Vincent’s dark shadow of a suit slip away from the Crescent Moon kept whirling through her thoughts.
He’d surprised her yesterday in the shop, his shocking white hair and stern expression so out of place among the familiar comforts of the Crescent Moon that she’d been thrown offkilter from the start of their conversation.
Anne had always been reassured by the fact that no matter the prickly temperament of a customer, she could reach within herself and find the steadiness she needed to keep whatever sharp remarks that bubbled to the surface in check. But when it came to Vincent, all it had taken was one sarcastic lift of a brow for the sharp remarks that normally stayed tucked away to whip off the tip of her tongue.
To make matters even worse, Anne had noticed the gleam of satisfaction that flashed in his eyes when she’d bitten back instead of remaining indifferent.
But that most certainly wouldn’t be the case this time around.
In the moments when she was shifting between readings, Anne had rehearsed exactly what she intended to say to Vincent during their next encounter, repeating the lines over and over again in her head until they took on the exact inflection that would help her feel as unfettered as a doorstop. And then, as she’d gotten ready to rest for the evening, Anne had added on to them as one does when drawing out a map with dozens of alternative directions etched along the various streets and alleyways.
First, she’d greet him in her most civil tone, saying his name as simply as she could so that the texture of the syllables didn’t have a chance to taste familiar. After she gave him a moment to reply in kind, Anne would outline her aims for the evening, making it clearer than crystal that she wouldn’t be riled again and expected all of her questions to be met with a definite answer. Their conversation wouldn’t unfurl as it had yesterday, when each exchange felt like an ember crackling unexpectedly in the stove.
She’d charted every possible barb and comment that might make her as bristly as a boysenberry bush and was determined to keep everything on course, no matter how much Vincent managed to rile her.
As Anne reached toward the brass knocker and tapped it against the wood, she pictured the first turn of their conversation, the sentence that she planned to say so solid on her tongue that she could very nearly feel it.
But when the door swung open and she parted her lips to speak, Anne realized that Vincent wasn’t standing there at all. The foyer was just as it had been the other day, empty aside fromthe fading light of sunset that crept in through the front door and the shadows cast by the candles flickering in the hallway.
The house, it seemed, had decided to let her in of its own accord again.
Anne’s brows furrowed as she stepped deeper into the hallway and wondered at the obvious display of hospitality. Strange that the house would let shadows and dust gather in its corners but so eagerly welcome a guest out of the frosty winter streets.
Before she could give that question any more consideration, however, the oddest noise drifted into Anne’s awareness.
It sounded like a soft strain of music, the vibrations strange and familiar all at once, as if she’d hummed the tune before and her body remembered the chords though she herself could not recall them.
And before she knew quite what she was doing, Anne had stepped closer to a door in the center of the hallway where she could hear the gentle hum slipping through the cracks along the frame.
As she rested her hand against the knob and started to turn it, though, Anne vaguely remembered that magical temptations aren’t always as innocent as they seem, but the pull of the music was much stronger than the ticking clocks had been. It was as if every note tugged at a place deep within her soul, making her feel like she was moving toward something that promised to reveal a hidden part of herself.
She could practically feel the tempo rippling against her skin now, growing stronger the more she thought about turning the knob to see what waited on the other side.
Tilting her head, Anne moved to do just that, but as she started to pull the door open, a hand flashed from behind her and snapped it shut again, causing her to jump in surprise.
The gentle pulse of the melody was instantly overpowered in Anne’s awareness by the scent of cypress and myrrh.
“What are you doing?” Vincent’s icy voice asked from behind her, so close to her ear that Anne knew if she whirled around, their faces would be separated by only the barest whisper.
The rough timbre of his tone should have made Anne feel like she’d just been doused in cold water, but instead heat rose to her cheeks as she turned her neck to glare at him.
“Seeing what’s on the other side of this door,” she answered sharply, all her intentions of remaining civil evaporating the moment she heard him speak.
